Let Them Say We Have Loved
by Gimli's Pickaxe
Summary: We fought, we grieved, we rejoiced, we made our last stand and built the dawn of a new age upon the rubbles of the old. So let them remember for what we had fought. Let them say we have loved. Nine romances, one for each member of the fellowship. Short and sweet.
1. Boromir

**Boromir**

'_If you asked me what love is to me, I would answer : duty. Ever was my life ruled by this stern mistress; yet look _– _not all of her gifts are bitter.'_

* * *

I am a Noble Lady of Gondor. I have my duties – to tend to the household in my husband's absence, to rule the house staff with a fair and just hand, to tend to guests with both courtesy and grace, to bring praise upon my husband and my father's house.

To never show my emotions, for they are raw, and weak, and do not become a noblewoman such as me. To never cry, even when my husband rides off towards dark promises of death and injury.

He has my duties, and I have mine.

Sunlight streams through the tall, arched windows of our bedchamber. I had left them open, for the air had been stuffy and in dire need of a change. The gossamer-white curtains flutter lightly in the breeze.

There is no one, not one servant waiting upon us, for even they are not cruel enough to deny me this one moment alone with my husband, this noble son of Gondor, who will now ride off to search for the fabled home of the elves.

I have ever been intuitive, and even now I cannot ignore that faint pang that pulls upon my heart, that makes me want to throw myself down at his feet, to grab at his ankles and cry for him not to leave. Suddenly, I know : if he leaves now, I will never see him again.

And so I hold back my tears, yet again, for I will not have him leave with memories of a weeping wife. I am a noble of Gondor, and I am strong. I will not cause him needless pain.

Slowly, he fastens his belt and drapes his fine, fur-lined cloak about his broad shoulders. He lingers, movements slower and less sure than usual, and I know that he loathes to leave as well. Yet he is a true son of Gondor, and he will not fail her.

Wordlessly, I step up behind him, encircling his strong waist with my arms, fastening the jeweled clasp of his thick cloak about his neck. I rest my chin upon his shoulder, and he leans onto my temple, a smile teasing about his bearded mouth.

"I will be back before you know it," he says, and I allow myself a wry smile at that.

"I always know, my lord. I always do."

I pull back, and he turns around, cupping one cheek with a rough, calloused hand. I throw my arms around my neck, savoring the moment, commiting every last detail to memory. This will be my rock, this will be what I hang onto for with every breath until his return.

I note the way the golden sunlight hits his angular cheekbones, his strong jaw, the stern-lined yet fair face. I see the crinkles about his eyes, the firm mouth, the glint in his eyes he only gets when looking upon me.

He drinks me in as well. His hand caresses my cheek, slowly, then traces my nose and lips as if he is trying to memorize every curve and dip of my face. Then our lips meet, slow and sweet, and I feel that lingering chill of dread deep within my soul.

"You will come back to me," I say, with as much fire as I dare. The darkness encroaches upon us every day, and every day is a battle for his life, for this valiant leader of men. I will not deny the men their beloved captain, and yet every day, my heart breaks behind this steely mask I wear.

He squeezes my shoulder, and I know that he has understood.

"I will always return to you, my love. In death or in life – I will return."

His voice is low, hoarse, little above a whisper, and I blink back tears that spring unbidden to my eyes. Then I blink again, and steel my will, my resolve. I will not have him remember my tears. Let him remember my resolve, my love, my devotion, my loyalty. I am his lady. I will not fail him.

"The Valar light your way," I whisper, and hold out a hand in farewell. A firm kiss upon my hand, and he is gone.

I watch him as he rides out of the city, his men and soldiers cheering him on, thundering out on his great mount, and turns into a speck in the distance. Then I turn, and watch as my shadow lengthens and stretches out across the bed, the bed that is so large and insurmountably cold now that he is gone. The sunlight plays across the crimson sheets, outlining every crag and texture of the rich velvet, and a cool breeze plays upon my cheeks.

In life or in death, he will return.

He will return to me. His wife. His lady. His love.

It is quiet, no servants, no one about, and I close the curtain to the glorious morning outdoors, and let the tears fall.

* * *

They did not have his body.

All I received was news of his death, and word of where he had been buried, and a cold, impersonal notification that I was free to move his grave to Gondor if I so wished.

I watched the coronation of King Elessar, and I felt a terrible bitterness upon my tongue, for my warrior, my captain, my love died for this; died for this coronation of a man I do not even know, and it is a terrible thought. I know that he is the rightful king, the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, I know that he has given much for the peace of Middle Earth, but he is not Boromir.

Usurper, a voice whispers in my mind. All these years, the line of Stewards held the throne for him, with unrelenting duty, even unto their deaths; and this man simply walks up and claims it as his.

I am bitter, terribly bitter, and so brittle I feel I must break soon. Yet I steel myself. I will not shame Boromir, even after death. I am his lady. I will be strong for him.

I feel a hand upon my shoulder, and turn, to face the king. He is leaner and more lithe than my husband was, and yet that dark hair, that sharp look in his eye, that noble chin, painfully, inexorably brings images of my love to mind.

I curtsy, and manage a graceful introduction of myself. He simply stares at me, for the longest time, then presses something small and cold onto my palm.

It is a silver ring, beautiful in its simplicity, cutting in its coolness. I bring up my finger to touch the same ring resting upon my fourth finger, and fight, fight with all that I have, to stop those cursed tears from falling.

"Boromir was a good man," the King says, his voice cracking from grief. His eyes cloud with welling tears and then it is simply too much.

And he held me, this King I cannot bring myself to respect, as I screamed my silent grief for my love to the heavens. He held me, tight, as I let go, tears running brokenly down my face, and I cursed him, cursed everything he stands for, cursed the Valar and my own broken soul.

I cradle the silver band in my palm as tears continue to track down my cheeks, and a helpess, bitter smile finds its way onto my face.

Even as his body rots under some foreign shore, he has made it back to me. _In life or in death._ He has returned.

To me. His lady. His forevermore unto my death.

* * *

Coming Up : Aragorn

_'It is nigh impossible, a love with no regrets... but, my love, I would never have had it any other way.'_

* * *

A/N : I sincerely hope you enjoyed this short piece, and please, tell me what you think! :D I am on a writing spree... I cannot stop writing. This is what happens when college entrance exams are over and done with, my friends... XD


	2. Aragorn

Disclaimer : I somehow always forget these... :( Unfortunately, I do not own the Lord of the Rings. Neither Aragorn nor Arwen is mine. This disclaimer applies to all current, previous, and future chapters of this story. :D

* * *

**Aragorn**

'_It is nigh impossible, a love with no regrets... but, my love, I would never have had it any other way.'_

* * *

It was a beautiful day.

The flowers bloomed in every colour imaginable, red and gold and orange and purple and indigo blue, and the air was laden with their sweet, heady scent. The sky was clear and blue, and a single white cloud drifted lazily across the sun.

_A good day,_ thought Aragorn absently. He felt strangely alert, though greatly weakened, and the late spring breeze was cool upon his skin. _A good day for farewells, a good day for my last journey on these shores._

He had already seen to everything he had to do.

There had been a constant trickle of guests, old friends and casual acquaintances and loyal subjects alike, and Aragorn had said his farewells – some harder than others, but farewell nonetheless. He had handed Eldarion his scepter, his eldest and dearest so much like him; had passed on last words of wisdom and left the Kingdom in his care. He had wandered the streets of the White City, not Elessar the King but Strider the Ranger once more, watching, wandering, remembering days long gone by.

And now he lay upon his deathbed, bracing himself for the last farewell of all. _Life is a strange thing,_ he mused, a wry smile playing about his lips and lighting his eyes with a hint of irony. _For even love does not come without a price._

"My love has sealed your fate," he said, his trembling hand reaching out to grasp that of his Queen. "In loving you I have doomed you to death."

Arwen leaned over then. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders, tickling the edges of his face, and clear grey eyes the colour of twilight bored into his.

"Do you regret our love?" she asked, her voice low and sweet. Aragorn closed his eyes, and thought.

He remembered the moment he had first set his eyes upon her. A golden mist draped heavily upon the silver-gold boughs of Lothlorien, bathing everyting in a strange, golden glow, as if he walked in a waking dream. Sunlight streaming through the trees, bright and clear and true, seeming to shine for her and for her alone. And the realization, like a slap of cold water upon his face – that his fate had been sealed, his heart given forever, and she would ever be dearest to his soul.

He remembered. Arwen under a starlit sky, glittering silver against indigo, shimmering, the sky so full with them they seemed to pour down upon his head. Arwen, Evenstar of her people, who in his eyes shined brighter than any star of the sky.

Laughters shared, tears shared, promise whispered to the wind. Waiting, aching, wandering, yearning, until finally a winged crown sat upon his head and he swept her into his arms with tears of joy. Their souls joined in glorious harmony, the great song of creation threading through their very being. A newborn Eldarion, face red from crying, and Arwen, hair plastered to her face with sweat, and yet somehow the most beautiful sight that he had ever seen.

_Do I regret our love?_

"Never," he said, and Arwen stroked his hand, pausing to caress the wrinkles in his old skin. Aragorn struggled to open his eyes, those treacherous eyelids that even now threatened to slide shut. "Do you?"

Arwen's grey eyes glittered, unreadable, unreachable, and a bittersweet smile graced her lips.

"I do." she said, her voice soft yet sure, and Aragorn's hand tightened against hers. "I do, sometimes – but it is nigh impossible, a love with no regrets. And, my love, I would never have had it any other way."

Aragorn smiled at that, but there was a lingering pain in his eyes. "Still I have chained you," he whispered. "I have chained you down, doomed you to the fate of death – you who could have been freer than the wind."

"Chained I am not. Before I had met you, chained I was; for I was tied to this world, bound to Arda until its end. But you have set me free. For in my love for you, I have embraced the gift of Men – and when you leave, I will follow you, and together we shall soar beyond the circles of this world."

Arwen's voice was firm, her eyes sure, and her soul sang of love, love so true that Aragorn could do nothing but laugh. His laughter rang out across the empty halls, clear and rich and full, and it was as if he were young once more.

"Then, my Queen," he cried, "we shall fly together. We shall soar like birds, and let the bards sing the tale of our love – for we were as Beren and Luthien, yet the end to our tale was much different. Let them rejoice, let them remember, that not all love of Elf and Man met a bitter end."

"That they will, my King. That they will. Ever more in the streets of the White City, the song of Elessar Telcontar and Arwen Undomiel shall be heard."

Aragorn turned, a mirthful spark lighting his eyes, and he grasped Arwen's hand again.

"Sing for me, my love. Sing for me one last time."

"Then close your eyes, Estel," Arwen murmured, smoothing out the sheets and laying a gentle hand upon his chest. Aragorn settled down into the covers, a whistling breath escaping his lips, and at long last his wearied limbs found rest.

As Aragorn drifted into sleep, Arwen raised her voice in joyful song, for it was not an end but a beginning, a promise of a journey to come; and together, they would soar, soar beyond the confines of this world, and be free forevermore.

So passed Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor, Heir of Isildur, Chieftain of the Rangers of the North, son of Arathorn, beloved ruler, loyal friend, loving father - love and hope of Arwen Undomiel, Evenstar of her people.

* * *

'_Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him in wonder; for they saw that the grace of his youth, and the valour of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world.'_

-The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A : The tale of Aragorn and Arwen-

* * *

Coming Up : Gandalf

_'So tell me! What does it take to steal the kiss of an old man?'_

* * *

A/N : As always, thank you to all who have read, reviewed, favorited, and/or followed my stories! It makes me so happy that someone out there is reading my work. While browsing through the internet, I have come to realize that this story does take some liberties with canon... unfortunately, it has been a long time since I watched the movies, and I am still working on the book, so please bear with me. :)

Reviews and Constructive Criticism is all greatly appreciated - I would love to know what you think, and advice always helps.


	3. Gandalf

Short A/N : In the last chapter, the 'trailer line' for Gandalf was : 'So tell me! What does it take to steal the kiss of an old man?' But I am afraid that particular line has been deleted from the story. :( Long story short - Gandalf gave me the writer's block, then I decided to approach the story from a whole new angle, and then the story became something very different from what I had originally planned. I guess this is what happens when you tackle writing without a well-thought-out plan... (I tend to be rather impatient, and this series of oneshots doesn't have any preplanned plot : only vague ideas. I post the 'trailer' line on whim and then write the story to match it. :D )

Hopefully you like this oneshot well enough to forgive me. Enough said, please enjoy!

* * *

**Gandalf**

_A tale told in three moments_

* * *

_The first time we met, I figured we could be friends._

_Several meetings later, I figured we might be more._

_The last time I see him, he's leaving._

_I never even knew his name._

* * *

_The first time we met, I figured we could be friends._

I had just finished giving a piece of my mind to a group of young rascals. To be honest, I'd grabbed them by their ears, given them the spanking of their lives, shook them until they mumbled out drunken apologies, then dragged them out and thrown them out into the snow. No funny business in my tavern, that's for sure. Everyone knows well enough not to mess with the old barkeep of _the Grey Pilgrim_ – the results are always messy.

I know I can be intimidating, if anything. I've got me broad shoulders that dwarf most men, I tower over most of the women in town, and the village children swear that my booming voice could be heard all the way to the mountain peaks. I've weathered the ages well. My hair is white but wiry, my skin is wrinkled but tough, my cheeks as ruddy red as ever.

That's why I am surprised when I spot him laughing at me. His eyes twinkle under those bushy grey brows of his, and he laughs long and hard, a throaty chuckle that makes me want to join in at once. He sweeps his long, pointy hat off and gives me an amused look.

"String them up naked by their boot-laces and make them lick their toes backward? That must have been the most creative threat I have ever heard in my whole life."

"You don't like it, Old Master, you leave," I shrug. "I don't tolerate no nonsense in _the Grey Pilgrim_."

Life is not kind to an old widow with no children. I know I am not refined, or womanly, or anything of the sort – but you ain't solve any problems with drunkards by sweet-talking them. Heaven knows I've had enough experience with that.

But he doesn't look offended, not one bit, and he laughs again instead. There is that twinkle in his eyes again, and for a second I figure that he might just be more than he seems.

"Oh, no, my good woman," he says, and draws a long breath from his pipe. "I liked it very much. I liked it very much indeed."

* * *

_Several meetings later, I figured we might be more._

The old man with the pointed hat visited several times after that, and if I dared say so, we got along famously. He had at least as much fire in him as he did, and for the first time since my old man died, I found myself going on about my daily business with a smile on my face. Drat that pointy-hatted fool. I'm far to old to go gamboozling about with mysterious old men with long sticks - and I know it, well. I'm beginning to feel stiff and aching on rainy days and if I'm not getting old(er) Eru can have my head.

But, well, he is enjoyable... so I let my heart run away. I hear that he's someone to be reckoned with, a wizard or some such, and people talk funny about him. I don't care one bit, since he hasn't bewitched anything in my tavern and that's more than enough for me. In fact, I manage to tell off most people when I catch them gossiping behind his back and I'm darn not peaceful about it. Several more spankings and ear-shakings later, he laughs at me again – that dratted twinkle in his eye! - and thanks me for defending him.

I just huff and turn away. And no, that heat rising to my cheeks is because of the fire. What else could it be?

Then he just has to go ahead and save my life.

I had wandered a bit farther than I was accustomed to. I'd run out of herbs for my famous stew, and it was a rainy day, and stew was an all-time favorite in foul weather. On top of that, my errand boy had got sick and couldn't work, so I'd gone into the forest myself.

I had this strange foreboding, a cold tingle down my spine that told me all was not right, and I'd hurried, nearly ripping out the herb in chunks. I had gathered the last, strong-smelling green clump into my basket and turned around...

...And come face-to-face with the foulest creature I had ever seen in my whole life.

I take in the ugly, yellow eyes, the stench, and the hideous countenance, and realize that I've gotten myself into a fine mess. If that isn't an orc - then I'm a rabbit. But if I am going to die anyway, I want to go down fighting, so I let out an impressive roar and swing a thick branch around me – a makeshift cudgel.

But deep down I know that this might be the end of me, and moments from my life flash across my eyes in a blinding mix of colors. The images still, and I'm treated with a fond mental picture of that darn wizard, bushy eyebrows drawn low in mirth, that dratted twinkle in his eye.

My old man will have my head, I think fondly, and brace myself for the end. But it never comes.

There's a fearsome flash of light, a blast of concentrated, pure power, and a faint sizzling fills my ears. The air smells terrible, and I turn around, and see the foul beasts that had surrounded me lying on the ground dead – charred to a crisp.

My wizard stares at me, a wild light in his eyes, and for a split second I am afraid of him. He really is a wizard, I realize, and he's something much more than what a simple barkeep like I can understand.

"Are you alright?" he asks, half breathless, and I realize he's worried for me. This – being, old man, wizard, friend, whatever, worried for me. He's saved my life. Then my heart skips a beat, and I turn away, scowling fiercely, because powerful or not I'll be caught dead before he sees me blush.

And I realize – we're sure friends, but maybe, maybe, we might be a little more.

* * *

_The last time I see him, he's leaving._

"You're leaving," I state incredulously. The business's done for the day, since it's well past midnight and all the drunkards have been chased out to find themselves some sense. He'd just opened the door, strolled in like he owned the place, plopped himself down on a bench I'd been cleaning, and just like that – announced that he was leaving, never to come back again.

To be frank, ever since that night he'd saved my life with his magic, I'd known he would have to leave one day. He was something mysterious, different, and beings like him and common people like me just didn't mix. Plain and simple. So I'd tried to make the most of the time with him. Whenever he'd visit, I would take out my pipe and smoke with him like there was no tomorrow. I would jest, laugh out loud, make good-natured jabs (with both words and elbow). We would storm _the Grey Pilgrim_'s store of ale and drink well into the morning, and he would take a look at the inn's sign-board and burst into laughter, and refuse to tell me just why he was laughing - yet again.

But I'd never imagined our farewell to be so... abrupt, and I am taken aback. For once, I am at a loss for words.

He takes me in, his gaze so old and wise and sad and melancholy that I almost feel like a child. (Which is absurd, because I'm the oldest woman in the village, and that is a considerable feat with the town's abundance of elders.) He reaches out a hand and pulls out his clay pipe, toying with it, never taking his eyes off mine.

"You are a good friend," he says, and I wonder if I am reading more into his tone than I should. Or does he really mean something more than a mere friend, a mere acquaintance? Again, his eyes are old, so old, and unreadable, as if a wall stands before me and him. I grunt in frustration.

"You were, too," I say. "But you're leaving, you old fool. You could have told me earlier."

"I could have," he admitted, bowing his head a tad. His grey locks and beard tumbles all over the place at that, "I could have."

"You should have." I correct him. He raises his head and rests his arms upon his knees.

"Mayhap I should have. But I could not. But before our farewell – you may ask me one boon, anything you wish. You would find quite a lot is in my power."

I could have asked for riches beyond measure, carts full of gold, a nice old man my age I could court, fine silks and spices from foreign lands... but all I wish to ask him is to stay, to tell me how he really feels about me, and this irks me – I am no lovesick damsel pining over her knight. And I am not daft – I know he is someone very important, powerful, and he has things to do – his place is not by my side.

But I cannot help what escapes my lips.

"Give me a kiss, then." There, it is said; it cannot be undone, and I put my hands upon my hips, face set in stubborn lines. Oh, my bones creak so... I am getting older by the day. And, well, I suppose I could ask that much. It's not anything grand anyway.

My wizard, for a second, looks as if he's for once at a loss what to do.

Then, before I can do anything, he's pulled me in close and pressed my lips to his. It's nothing mighty romantic, mind : his lips are rough and chapped, he smells faintly of pipeweed and something else, and it stops at that – a chaste brushing of lips.

"-I must go," he says abrubtly, and I wonder at what I see upon his face. Is it lingering fondness? Regret? Mortification?

But before I can say anything, he mumbles a hurried farewell and he is out of the doors before I know it. Snapping out of my daze, I rush towards the doors and throw them open, but all is quiet and not a shadow is in sight. Drat that damned wizard and his magic. He had to vanish into thin air, too. And – and I might never see him again, and that thought somehow echoes hollowly in my mind.

Did I love him? I ask myself. Well, love is an awfully serious word, with implications of all sorts of deep, mushy things and sacrifice. Mayhap I didn't really love him. But I do know that I'd been awfully fond of that wizard of mine, and given time my feelings might've grown into something much, much more.

I'll never see him again. He's said farewell.

I feel hollow and sad and strangely content and awfully weird all at once, and I slap myself upside the head. I'm getting sentimental in my old age, I mutter angrily, and slam the tavern doors shut. The room still smells of pipeweed.

_I never even knew his name._

* * *

Next Up : Pippin

_'I wanted to hug her and clock her over the head all at once. Terribly confusing, really; I guess the moment I figured it out was the moment I asked her to marry me.' _

* * *

Another A/N XD : As always, many, many thanks to those who have read, reviewed, favorited, and/or followed this story so far! I have fun writing these, so really do hope you have fun reading these as well. Reviews and constructive criticisms receives my double thanks, but I won't blame you if you don't review - heaven knows I'm guilty of 'lurking', a lot of the time. I am just too shy. :)


	4. Pippin

**Pippin**

'_I wanted to hug her and clock her over the head all at once. Terribly confusing, really; I guess the moment I figured it out was the moment I asked her to marry me.'_

* * *

Our first meeting wasn't really so much of a good one.

She'd caught me thieving, you see.

Well, to be honest, it wasn't really thieving. I'd nearly drowned and frozen myself in the Brandywine river (a note to brave young hobbits : swimming in the middle of winter is definitely not a good idea), and I'd needed something to eat, desperately. I'd been so hungry I could've eaten an oliphaunt.

So I just snuck up, like that, and flinched a potato from her shed. I hadn't known that she was watching. I also hadn't known that she had a spade in her hand, or that she was a formidable girl perfectly capable of wielding gardening tools as lethal weapons.

As soon as I turned around to leave, I was smacked soundly over the head with that spade. It hurt like nothing else, I was cold and shivering and I felt a bruise forming on the upside of my head, darn I was hungry, and – and, again, it throbbed and it _hurt_.

"Did your parents teach you to act so?" the girl admonished, waving the spade this way and that. I was a little affronted at that – I had planned to come back and pay for that potato sometime soon. Mind you, I _do_ have manners, contrary to what many might think.

But all I could think of at that moment was how my head hurt and how much her words cut into me, like a sharp piece of glass, and I was cold and shivering and hungry, and darn it, it was just _one_ potato. It was so humiliating that I burst into tears.

The girl's eyes softened at that, and she put an awkward hand on my head. I smelled violet-scented soap and rough, homespun cloth filled my eyes.

A dirt-coated lump was pushed into my hands, a tad roughly, and the girl's tentative voice sounded right by my ear.

"Take this. Before I change my mind."

Well, I did, and I never forgot the girl with the potato after that.

* * *

I saw her here and there over the following years. We didn't live so far from each other, after all. I didn't quite know what to think of her for a long, long while. Some days, I would remember that solid smack on my head, and I would burn with resentment. On other days, I would remember that potato, and her violet soap and soft voice, and I couldn't wait to see her again.

I never really talked to her, mind. I was much to shy for that (and yes, again, I can be shy. Talking to women has never really been my strong point). But I watched her, and sometimes I caught her watching me, and I learnt a thing or two about that girl with the potato.

Her name was Diamond, they said. I thought it was a nice name for her. Pretty and cool and hard and sharp and glittering. I came to like her eyes – they were always glimmering with a lively light, and they were sharp and smart, like they could see right through you. This was a girl who wouldn't tolerate any nonsense, for sure.

She was real nice with kids, though, and I often saw her reading story-books to the village children under the shade of a large tree. She had a sweet voice, I thought. She'd definitely make a great mother – firm when need be, and kind and loving and soft-voiced.

And then I blushed, and turned away, setting off at a near-run towards the other side of the meadow. I felt her eyes on me all the way.

* * *

The next few years were a blur. First there was Frodo and his adventure, almost dying and all that, and then there was the settling-in, which was a lot more difficult than I'd expected. It was almost like I'd grown a second head : folk stared at me all strange-like, and deep inside I knew I'd never be that jolly youngster of a Took again.

Still, I was something of a hero (with Frodo and Sam and Merry, of course), and everyone pretty much bent themselves backward to make me happy. Since there wasn't much I could do about it, I decided to make the most of it – and all this newfound renown had me hope, hope about that something I'd only ever entertained in the barest edges of my mind.

A pretty girl with a round, delicate face, with a wide generous mouth and those eyes glittering like diamonds. That girl with the potatoes and the sweet, sweet voice. Well, could I hope?

I figured the only way to find out was to try.

So the next time I ran across her (it was at the marketplace, I figure) I worked up my courage and blurted out, "Let's have supper together today."

It's a lot more blunt and assuming than what I'd had in mind, but it is something, and it's the best I could've done. I waited, my tongue glued to the ceiling of my mouth and my hands curled into fists at my sides.

I never knew you could have so many different expressions in such a short amount of time. She blushed, than was wide-eyed for a split second, some other faces I couldn't quite discern, than those pretty dark eyebrows were drawn low over her eyes, and she looked up at me with a challenging glimmer in those eyes of hers. I caught my breath.

"You may be some hero, Master Peregrin, but I do appreciate some courtesy!"

A flutter of skirts, the faintest smell of violets, and then she was gone. And I was left gaping like a fish out of water. I wasn't that rude again now, was I?

I wanted to hug her and clock her over the head all at once. Hug her, because I'm sure my face was just about as red as a beet and my heart was threatening to burst out of my chest, and she was so pretty even in her indignance, and I was pretty sure I'd fallen head over heels for her.

Clock her over the head because, well, I'd done the best that I could – and is that any way to treat a gentleman?

Terribly confusing, really. For once in my not-so-long life (take Legolas, for instance, he makes me look like a toddler) - I was at loss for words.

* * *

A bunch more of failed attempts later ('Peregrin Took, I am in the middle of work. Do not disturb me.' 'Goodness, you're scaring the children!' 'Really? Here in the middle of the road?' 'This is what you call an effort.') I found myself crumpled on a bench of the Green Dragon, a empty flagon of ale gripped in my right hand. A gentle, but firm, grip took the ale-mug out of my hand and I looked up, only to see Merry looking down at me with a concerned look on his face.

"Goodness, Pippin, is this about that girl again?"

"Diamond," I mumbled. "Her name's Diamond. And no wonder – she's as hard as one, for sure!"

"Hmmm," muttered Merry, slipping down to join me on the bench. "You know, maybe she's shy."

"Shy!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up into the air. "You call that shy! I have been insulted by her more times than I can count! Shy, you say!"

I huff in exasperation. Most of it towards myself, since whatever happens now, I know that my heart is already taken – by a cruel mistress, but taken anyhow. I just cannot erase the image of those bright eyes from my mind. Not anymore. It's way too late for that.

In the meanwhile, Merry has been thinking, and he turns toward me with that glint in his eyes.

"Well, Pippin, I've seen the way she looks at you when she thinks you're not looking. Trust me. Just one more time, trust me, and look straight at her – really look. Pippin, she likes you a lot more than you might think."

"Shy!" I cry again, and Merry shrugs. "She just isn't good at expressing it."

I just call for another mug af ale, and that is the end of our conversation.

Still, I'm a shy hobbit at heart (in matters of romance, anyway) and I just can't work up the courage to look at her, nevermind talk to her. One hobbit can only take so much. I don't think I can take being rejected to her any more.

* * *

Then one day I see something that gives me a burst of courage all over again.

I'd been walking by, on one of my daily strolls, and I spot Diamond cornered by a group of raggly ruffians. They're all headstrong youngsters, famous for drinking hard and accosting any lass they can find with or without consent, and my heart begins to race. That's my Diamond (even though she would surely disagree). If any of them dare lay a hand on her I swear I am going to break all their noses and half their teeth to boot.

So I wait, tense and alert. I don't hear much, but I can tell the lads are saying some pretty naughty things, and Diamond's eyes glitter angrily, before she swings her bag of groceries fast and hard...

...And knocks one of them clear unconscious.

She jabs a finger at them, probably saying something very, very uncomplimentary, and the gaggle rushes her, enraged by what they've heard. I rush out of cover, too, intent to help her, but she has the situation well under control. She raises one heavy boot and stomps, hard, _there._

Well, I'm not going to elaborate. You know, _there. _So hard that I can almost hear the crunch. Another one crumples, a pained heap on the floor, and the rest eye her warily. I step up then, and raise my voice threateningly.

"You better not be harassing this lass!"

Again, not the best, but you must bear with me. I've never been much of the heroic type and heroic threats are not my forte. But it must've been enough, since they retreat, grumbling all the way, dragging their incapacitated members behind them. I scratch and turn towards Diamond. She has a bright flush high on her cheekbones, and several strands of her light brown hair frames her round face, having escaped from her customary tight bun.

All in all, it's the most unruly I've ever seen her, and it's awfully bad on my heart – I'm pretty sure it's just skipped a beat again.

I move to say something, but she's faster.

"I didn't need your help," she snaps, and sets off, boots stomping hard, strides as long as she can make them. I almost race after her, but my thoughts are racing, so I stand still, trying to make some sense out of the whole situation.

Well, she's certainly never kicked me away. And she's never jabbed her finger at me like that either.

Nor has she swung fresh grocery at my head.

So – am I not really as hated as I'd thought?

Several days later, I find a bar of homemade violet soap on my doorstep, wrapped in brown paper and complete with a note.

_Thank you. For the other day. Yours truly, Diamond._

Simple as can be, really, but I can't help the wide, foolish grin that makes its way across my face.

* * *

The next time I meet Diamond, I surprise myself with my boldness. After calling her several times, I simply grab her wrist and spin her around. When she faces me she has that adorable blush on her cheeks again, those lively brown eyes just so _beautiful_, and I find that I cannot help myself any longer.

I kiss her.

Her soft, plump lips part a little, and I taste her, a heady, soft mix of fresh laundry and jasmine and something else I can't define.

Then I feel a sharp, stinging sensation in my cheek, and I realize she's slapped me. I rub it and it hurts, again, and I almost cry. Not because of my cheek – I've been hurt a lot more badly than this. It's because I've tried almost everything I know with this girl, this slip of a hobbit-lass, and I thought she'd gotten so close, so close – until this. Now, she feels oh-so-far again, like a forbidden fruit at the top of some high, mysterious tree.

I'm lost. My cheek stings, and I want to pull her into my arms and squeeze her tight and bang her over the head all at once. She is just so confusing. Must have some Elven blood in her ancestry or something.

"Why?" She demands, cheeks near aflame now. I open my mouth, shut it, then open it, shut it again, because I don't really know either.

Then in a moment of clarity, I do know.

"I think I want to marry you," I blurt out.

This time it's her turn to gape. Her mouth hangs slightly agape, and something softens deep inside those sharp eyes of hers. Unable to help myself, I draw her in for another kiss.

She throws her arms around my neck and leans in, stray strands of hair tickling all around my face and neck. And that is answer enough.

She is sharp and confounding and hard and uncompromising and all of those things, but she is also the girl with the potato, the girl who tells the children stories, the girl who sent me soap. She really is a Diamond, I suppose. Beautiful, cold, hard, glittering, warm, priceless, all in one. A lady true to her name.

But she is _my_ Diamond now, and that is all that matters.

* * *

Next Up : Frodo

_Some days, I look up at the sky, and imagine the sea, with its endless blue waves and crying gulls. I remember him._

* * *

A/N : At last, Pippin! :D My apologies about any divergence from canon : to be honest, I am not awfully knowledgable about canonical facts in general (I have almost given up on finishing the books, and I watched the movies a while back.)

That said, hope you all enjoyed this short piece.

_+special thanks to non-logged in people who have reviewed this work so far : _

earthdragon, and mysterious guest \- Thank you SO MUCH for your kind reviews! Those got me going whenever I tackled a writer's block along the way. And mysterious guest the hobbit-lover : This chapter goes to you. Again, my sincere thanks. :)


	5. Frodo

**Frodo**

_'Some days, I look up at the sky, and imagine the sea, with its endless blue waves and crying gulls. I remember him.'_

* * *

Sometimes, all I remember about him is his eyes. The clearest blue I had ever seen, I'd always thought it was a little like the autumn sky. The exact colour of cornflowers upon the meadows.

Well, it's a pretty good thing to think about, as far as things go, but it's also a little – sad. Because I know I ought to have a lot to remember him by, except for his eyes, but I don't. Everything has faded, a fine summer mist, and only his eyes are as clear as ever – calm, quiet, intense, and they cut into me like sunlight through fog.

I do have a lot of memories with him. We were never anything passionate, much, but we loved like the breeze or clouds upon a summer's night : that was us. We were comfortable with each other, a drowsy corner of peace even in the Shire renowned for its peacefulness. If things had been allowed to run their course, then I reckon we'd have been married by now. I used to imagine batches of young'uns running around and squealing, youngsters with his blue eyes and my dimples, or my curls and his lanky way of moving.

But things happened, and that became a future that will never come to be.

Funny, that. Our parting was as comfortable as our meeting had been. No tears, no grabbing, no screaming. He said goodbye and I let him go. Just like that. It doesn't hurt when I think of him. No, not at all. I've been told that isn't how it usually is after you let a loved one go. So now I ask myself. Did I not love him at all?

I remember. Oh, there was so much that we'd shared. Small smiles against the rolling wildflower hills by the river, the sun setting on our backs, the smell of wild heather and fresh grass tickling our noses. Fishing, walking on the river-bank and across the springy leaves of spring, Long autumn nights upon the balcony, legs thrown carelessly across each other, cups of sweet drinks loose in our hands.

Secret tears we never showed anyone else, smiles that were never quite so bright when we weren't with each other. How he would read anything and everything he got his hands on, his quiet intensity and his long artist's hands, his quiet gaze that saw everything and nothing at once. How his lips would curl into a slow, indulgent smile, his upper lip never quite catching up with the lower part, that shy curve that made you want to smile as well. His gentle way with words that could coax the shiest hobbit-child to come out and play in the sunlight.

The thing is, I remember, and know that I'll never live through these moments again, know that he's gone for-ever and I'll never see him again – and it doesn't hurt. A dull, quiet yearning as if I'm feeling it from across a veil of dreams. Do I miss him? Maybe. Maybe not.

Do I love him?

I did. I think I do now, too. Maybe I do. Maybe I do not. But I know that I will probably never marry. I will never forget him. I miss him. But I do not ache for him. Oh, things are so confusing these days.

I remember our last goodbye. He'd called me to his hobbit-hole, long after dinnertime, and I'd known somewhere deep inside that this would be our last. So I'd taken out my best dress, straightened the skirt, and set off. And there at Bag's End, under the flickering light of the candle, we said our farewells.

He was just so tired, he'd said. I remember his eyes, wide, dark in the candlelight and oh-so-haunted. He was damaged somehow, so much it couldn't be fixed, leastways not here. He was leaving with the elves, he'd told me. He was sailing over the sea, the sea blue like the sky, with the crashing waves and the crying gulls. He was going to go.

In the low light of the room, stars shining through the round window and glinting off that fine skin of his, he almost looked like one himself. I'd looked at him, seen the hollows in his cheeks and the way his smile never quite reached his eyes.

I've always been good at understanding people. And I'd always been especially good at understanding him. I saw him, and again, I understood; so I let him go. A quiet goodbye, like a stream gurgling over a river-bed. Like the song of a nightingale deep in an old forest. A slow, sweet embrace, something that almost was a kiss but wasn't, quite. In that moment, he looked at me, deep and straight, and I figured : this time, he understood too.

I let him go.

Today, I stroll slowly across the village road, a basket full of freshly baked bread draped by my side. It is spring. The air is clear and sharp, but the sun is warm, and the sky is the bluest I have seen in a long while. Blue, like the sun on the river, blue, like cornflowers on the field – blue, like the sea, with its crashing waves and crying gulls.

It is on days like this that I remember. Still, it does not hurt; but it is clear and sweet, and I wonder – must it really be any different?

You must not have loved him, they say. Because to lose a loved one is to lose a part of your soul, and it hurts, it hurts like your heart is being torn in two. And no, my heart feels whole and hale in my chest, and it beats on, as strong as ever, and I feel no hole in my soul. So perhaps I did not love him. Perhaps I did not love him enough.

For I let him go.

Oh, but I remember. I have forgotten all else, all those sweet moments between us, the laughters we have shared. They have faded into sweet tatters, as comforting yet shapeless as an old patched quilt. Still, some days, I look up at the sky, and imagine the sea, with its endless blue waves and crying gulls.

And I remember him.

* * *

Next Up : Gimli

_"Well, I didn't _win_," he admitted. "But I think I'm still the best choice."_

_"Fine, husband," she said, and pulled him in for the kiss._

_The matter was pretty much settled after that._

* * *

A/N : Thank you all so much for reading! :D As always - review, and you have my undying love.


	6. Gimli

**Gimli**

_"Well, I didn't win," he admitted. "But I think I'm still the best choice."_

_"Fine, husband," she said, and pulled him in for a kiss._

_The matter was pretty much settled after that._

* * *

1\. Sharpness

"My axe is sharper," said a gruff voice from behind her. The voice was deep and booming, like rocks tumbling about in an underground cavern, and rumbled just enough to sound good. The words, however, were overtly to-the-point and decidedly unpleasant. Or at least so she thought.

"It's not," she said, sharply. "Mine is a masterpiece – and you know it."

"Prove it," he challenged again. Insufferably stoic. She knew that were she to turn around, she would come face to face with those unreadable dark eyes, deep-set under bushy eyebrows the colour of muted flames. Still, she turned around, because she was much too irked not to do so.

"Will you be satisfied if it chops your head clean off this very moment?" She growled, hefting her axe.

He was a son of a revered dwarven lord, the illustrious Gloin who had been part of that legendary adventure any dwarf-child knew by heart. He was also a great warrior in his own right, strong and stout, a skilled miner and smith : everything, in short, a dwarf could aspire to be.

So why, in the name of Aule, was he participating in this harebrained scheme of her parents?

Winner takes it all, indeed. Or mayhap winner takes the marriage.

Bah. Load of nonsense, all of it.

2\. Strength

"See. In strength – mine wins."

Again, so stoic, so closemouthed. Again, those unfathomable dark eyes of his. Was he laughing at her? Or was he bored? Was he here because Gloin wanted him wed, too? Or was he really interested in her?

He was never one for chatter, and most of the time she liked it fine enough. For she had no patience for fools, but blathering fools were the very worst. But now – it infuriated her to no ends.

"That's not by strength of the axe," she argued. "But by strength of the wielder."

Her eyes scanned, almost against her own will, over the firm, taut muscles of his upper arms, still slightly tensed from the previous exertion. A master smith's arms, able to forge anything from a beautiful, jewelled ring from a deadly war-axe at a moment's notice.

Arms so much like hers, but so different as well – stronger, broader, and so... reliable.

She shook her head as hard as she could, grimacing. Reliable, my eye. All this nonsense was getting to her head.

3\. Beauty

"Oh, this one I yield," he said.

She was getting used to his presence at her forges. She normally guarded her forges jealously, never letting anyone but the most trusted colleagues and close family in, but he – well, he was a different matter.

Now who had said that he was a well-mannered dwarf? He must have flung all his manners into Mount Doom one of these days, because disregarding all rules of dwarven protocol, he has made a veritable home right in the middle of her forges.

And the most curious thing of all was that she really didn't mind too much. Maybe because she knew his skills at smithing was on par with hers. Masters like him really didn't have need for thieving business secrets.

"Yield?" She asked. "On beauty? But then my axe wins."

"I am never one to lie," he clarified, before sketching a deep bow, hood off and sweeping the ground, and leaving.

Was it just her, or did he really mean something more by that?

Oh, that dwarf was going to be the death of her.

The Verdict

"Has anyone won yet?"

"No," she answered, without meeting his eyes. It was getting very hard to look him in the eye these days, and it annoyed her to no end. Why, on Arda? She was no blushing child to act like this.

"You are a master indeed," he said, taking off his hood and bowing – again.

"You are, too, and you know it." There was a tinge of annoyance in her voice, this time. She knew her words to be true. The mettle of their axes were well-matched, be it in strength or sharpness or... or beauty.

An image of Gimli, that flitting note of laughter in his voice - 'I am never one to lie.' He was acting like an elf, by Aule, with all this confounded mystery.

"But I yielded." A laugh curled his lips, that impressive, bushy russet beard of his shifting ever so slightly, and she threw up her hands in exasperation.

"Ah, yes! All that yielding business! Absurd!"

"Yours was the greater beauty – that is all."

"What!"

She was blushing again. Ah, what was her problem? Or was he the problem indeed? Perhaps that was the case. She only ever acted this strange around him.

He was leaning against one of the forge walls, now. Looking damnably comfortable and – and dashing. A dashing epitome of dwarven charm, all stoic silence and stout strength and proud chin and long, well-kept beard and handsome, dark eyes.

"Well, I didn't win," he admitted. "But I think I'm still the best choice."

Saying so, he smiled, and she couldn't really resist him after that.

"Fine, husband," she said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

The matter was pretty much settled after that.

* * *

Coming Next : Legolas

_'Tell me. Would you fall in love with a firefly?' He asks. I shake my head._

_'Then you shall never understand,' he says._

* * *

A/N : To all those who have taken their time to read this piece : Thank you. I can never thank all of you enough, but still - I must try, yes? :D

Again, as always - review and you have my extra thanks. (Which is, by the way, a lot. :) )


	7. Legolas

**Legolas**

_'Tell me. Would you fall in love with a firefly?' He asks. I shake my head._

_'Then you shall never understand,' he says._

* * *

We sit upon the top of the small hill, wind ruffling our hair, and we watch the sun set. The sky bleeds red, golds and pinks and every imaginable hue of orange mixing together like some giant pot of dye. It is beautiful.

He is beautiful, too.

I could watch him for months on end and I would still marvel at his beauty, I think. Perhaps it is only natural. For his beauty is one not made for mortals like me.

I watch the sweep of pale gold, glimmering like a hidden patch of winter-grass, sliding easily down his graceful back. I watch the elegantly arched brows, those sparkling grey eyes so wise and young and exuberant all in one. The shapely, straight nose, the full lips, chiseled jaw, strong neck. Slender and graceful and strong, like a young tree in spring.

Oh, he is beautiful.

And I feel terribly plain all of a sudden, like a maidservant caught spying upon a prince.

He must know many beautiful elf-maidens, I suppose. They could have stayed with him forever. He would never have to grieve their loss.

"Why do you love me?" I ask.

The question escapes my lips before I can help it, and it comes out like something of a hoarse whisper. I blush. But I am also curious, for this is a question that has plagued me for a terribly long time now. He is perfect, and I am not, and I cannot see what he sees in me; what he sees that he likes so much. What he sees in a plain farm-girl who had just been lucky enough and kind enough to rescue an injured elf in the woods.

He considers my question, quietly. His head tilts sideways in that endearing way of his, white-gold hair spilling across his shoulders in a shimmering waterfall, the dying sun casting long shadows upon his sculpted face.

It is near dark now, and the air begins to come alight with fireflies, flitting across the dusky expanse of the sky like fallen stars come to earth. He spreads a palm, and a firefly sits their, fluttering its wings as if it is trying to speak to us.

It is beautiful.

Still, he thinks, that thoughtful curve of his chin so evident to me. Finally, he turns, and I am treated to the sight of those exuberant, ageless grey eyes.

"Tell me. Would you fall in love with a firefly?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Then you shall never understand," he says.

Mayhap I never will. Never go to Elves for counsel, they say. For they will say both Yea and Nay. I have always thought him fairly straightforward, never shy to state his thoughts, brave and fearless and young, but now – now, he confuses me.

"Would you?" I ask. He reaches out, playing with a strand of my plain, dark hair, and there is a rueful smile playing upon the edges of his mouth.

"Oh, but I already have, sweet one. So pleasant upon the eyes, light so bright and clear, just out of my reach, ever flitting across that thing we call life. So beautiful."

"I am the firefly?" I laugh, trying to make light of this moment that has become so serious, so fast. But his eyes are heavy upon mine, and I understand what it means to withstand the weight of a gaze that has walked these lands for Ages.

"Perhaps." That unreadable smile, again. So melancholy, soft and fleeting. "Burning bright and beautiful," he says, gently pressing his lips to the palm of my hand.

"I love you." I say, because I do not know what else to say. Maybe because he is so beautiful, so eternal, something completely different that I can never hope to comprehend nor own in its entirety, and all that I can offer is my love. However much that means to him.

I think he understands, because he gives me a smile, clear and sweet, and we watch the fireflies for a while.

They fly in circles and loops across the night sky, leaving a glimmering trail in their wake, glowing soft yellow and gold, and I am lost in this timeless dance. I can almost imagine the years going by, myself growing old and weary and weak, until I cannot walk all the way to this hillock anymore. And still, the fireflies will dance, and it will be beautiful, and he will be here, too, young and fey and beautiful, swaying upon the wind with starlight in his hair.

But perhaps his eyes will change, become older and more tired, that tireless, youthful joy I know so well fading a little with every loss.

I know that he will mourn my death. Will he remember me for eternity, take the memory of me across the sea and cherish it – there where they say all hurts melt like morning dew upon sunlight?

I think that he might. I hope he does not. I do not want those eyes to age.

Oh, my greenleaf. So beautiful. So blindingly bright.

His fingers lace into mine, and I am pulled into a gentle kiss, slow and torturously sweet. I close my eyes.

I still do not know why I choked back tears on that night, that night when the fireflies danced.

But as the fireflies danced above us, his lips met mine, and as I leaned into him, breathing in the sent of young leaves and tree-bark, a tear made its way down my cheek; and I could not stop it, however hard I tried.

I let it stay.

* * *

Coming Next : MERRY! :D

_He was my friend before he was my brother's._

_'Keep my Fatty safe,' I say. 'I'll try,' he replies, and his eyes are the most serious I've ever seen._

_'Will you stay safe too?' I ask, grabbing his arm._

_This time, he does not meet my eyes._

* * *

**A/N :** Only two chapters to go now! This chapter was one of my favorite chapters in this whole series - perhaps I am a bit biased because of Legolas... :)

Sincere thanks to all those who have waited for, read through, favorited, followed and/or reviewed this story. You are the ones who make me keep going.

**Special Thanks :** My special Guest, who has left a whopping three reviews on my story. I wasn't able to reply by PM because you weren't logged in, but please know that I truly delight in your wonderfully detailed, considerate reviews. Thank you so much!


	8. Merry

**Merry**

_He was my friend before he was my brother's._

_'Keep my Fatty safe,' I say. 'I'll try,' he replies, and his eyes are the most serious I've ever seen._

_'Will you stay safe too?' I ask, grabbing his arm._

_This time, he does not meet my eyes._

* * *

It is a dark, rainy night. The door of our hobbit-hole rattles like something posessed, and I can almost feel the raindrops pounding in my bones. I shiver and draw my shawl tighter around my shoulders. It is still cold.

A knock sounds, and I open the door. I have been expecting this guest. But I do not know if I am glad to see him.

Sharp, clear eyes flit across the room, finally coming to rest upon my face. Those eyes soften, just a little bit, and he smiles apologetically.

"Fatty?"

The end raised just a little, as if he has not decided whether it is to be a question yet. I shift, taking a step back, and he enters our hole, closing the door softly behind him. Rain falls of him in rivulets and pools beneath his feet.

I bite my lip.

"In the living room," I say. "He broods."

I do not want to meet his eyes. He has ever been a good friend – he was my friend before he was my brother's. Stout, loyal, sharp. clever, ever a ready shoulder to lean upon. A good hobbit.

But I am afraid – if I meet his eyes, now, I might shout, yell at him, this nameless sense of blame and foreboding taking over, and that is no way to bid a friend farewell.

Oh, this harebrained conspiracy of theirs.

I know of it. Fatty did not want me to, for I was ever his sweet sister, never to be defiled or sullied by darkness or danger, but – I am not a friend to Merry for nothing. I am sharp, in my own way, too.

Baggins. Nothing but trouble.

I wonder. Am I the most harebrained of us all? For I am the one who is letting them go.

Oh, insane. I am insane.

I wanted to make them stay. But Merry gave me that resolute look of his, eyes steady and unyielding, that apologetic curve to the mouth, so – so clear, and courageous, and heartbreakingly loyal. And then I could not.

After some time, Fatty makes his way out of the living room. He must have heard the voices, I suppose, for our home is no mansion. He lays a reassuring hand upon my shoulder, squeezing lightly, but I notice that his hands are trembling a little. I do not tell him so.

"Merry," he says simply. "I'm ready to go, lad."

He is making an effort to sound upbeat, and Merry puts on a wan smile at that too. I think I have never seen the pair of them more scared. And I have never seen those two so damnably resolute.

On a whim, I reach out, grabbing Merry's arms and squeezing.

"Keep my Fatty safe," I say. I look up at him. His gaze steady, and deep, and I think I see something lingering in those depths. He grins.

"I'll try," he replies. The corners of his mouth are still turned up. His eyes are the most serious I've ever seen.

"Will you stay safe too?" I ask, grabbing his arm.

His arm is neither slender nor thick, soft enough for me to dig my fingers in, firm and steady and so much like him that I never want to let go.

He smells like pipe-weed and the summer nights of the shire, of earth and growing things and the faint, watery scent of the river. He smells like all those days we'd spent together under the sunlight, laughing, fishing, swimming, farming, talking.

"I will try," he replies, at length, and it sends a shiver up my spine. He does not meet my eyes.

Oh, this damned hobbit of mine.

I bite my lip, again. I think it will bleed before long.

"Take care," I say, and that is the last I see of them for a very long time.

* * *

The hobbit hole Fatty and I lived in isn't large, but it is awfully lonely with just one hobbit-lass in it.

I knit, I sew, I go to the market, the inn, anywhere. I wander, and at night, I am careful to light all the torches and the fireplace, to never let a stranger in, to keep the darkness out.

Some nights, I look out the window, and wonder.

I wonder, and I worry, for my dear brother and my greatest friend, and sometimes I do not know which of them I miss more.

It is a disturbing thought.

I remember how I sent them off. I remember how Merry did not meet my eyes.

For the first time in my whole life, I close my eyes, and pray, wordlessly, to whoever will listen. Merry has been the best friend I'd ever known, not that we'd ever been much crazy about each other. But I'd always been fond of him, for his quick mind and stout heart, for his ability to laugh in the worst of situations. For so many things.

Dear friend.

But then I feel this worry, this nameless emotion slowly gnawing away at me, almost as persistent as my fear for my brother, and I am not so sure anymore.

Friends.

Or perhaps something – more.

Hurry home, Merry. For I have much to say indeed.

* * *

Coming Up : Sam and Rosie

_'It was Sam the Gardener I fell for, not Sam the Hero.'_

* * *

A/N : I am sincerely sorry for how long it took me to get this out. Life has been hectic - I moved two times, and lots of college orientations, the whole virus debacle, and so on. And then - well, and then I got lazy. :( It is not my very best work, I suppose, but I liked it well enough, and figured I should uploat at least something so I could warm up to writing again.

Hope you enjoy it! :)


	9. Sam

**Sam**

_'It was Sam the Gardener I fell for, not Sam the Hero.'_

* * *

Of all the ways the evening could go wrong, Sam had never imagined that Rosie might choke on her ring.

Well, it happened, and it was all downhill from there.

Sam watched in abject horror as Rosie choked then gagged, face redder than a beetroot, before spitting out a vaguely round blob that didn't look anything like a ring.

"What is that?" exclaimed Rosie, half incredulous, half flabbergasted, and very thoroughly flustered. Sam wrung his hands, sweat beading on his forehead.

Oh, he was the worst fool of a hobbit that had ever lived. Whoever had thought proposing by a ring in the dessert was a good idea?

Well, Mister Pippin had said so, and Sam had been scatterbrained enough to listen.

"Your wedding ring," Sam admitted. Rosie's eyes flew as wide as saucers.

"You put my wedding ring in our pudding? Why?"

Sam gulped, because even though he supposed he wasn't much of a coward, Rosie could be quite the force of nature when she wanted. It had been a perfect supper up to then – Sam inviting Rosie over to his hobbit-hole, a nice, romantic, candlelit supper complete with taters, easy conversation and all. It'd been so perfect that Sam figured it couldn't be true. Well, Sam had been right.

Sam thought about all the anticipation and effort he'd put into this single dinner, preparing the cutlery, planning the dishes, cooking, working up the courage to ask Rosie over, everything. Sam nearly teared up, but he managed to hold the tears back, forcing his eyes towards the scruffy floor of his home.

Well, Rosie was a wonder, if anything, and he definitely owed her an explanation.

"Well, I wanted it to be all magical-like, see. Then Master Pippin said that he'd once read a tale where a prince gave a princess her ring, just so, in the dessert, and she was so surprised and overwhelmed and happy... I wanted to give you the best, Rosie. You really did deserve it. I wanted – I wanted to be heroic, noble, something, special – just for you. And-" Sam wrung his hands again.

He really, really didn't know what to do.

Near choking the lass you fancy with a dratted ring, Sam. He couldn't have been a worse fool. Everything had gone wrong, everything. Maybe his chance with Rosie had flown right away too.

Then he smelled a whiff of Rosie's sweet, comforting scent, so warm and cosy and right, baked cookies and soft brewed tea and the faintest hint of flowers and wood, as he was enveloped right into a tight, snug embrace.

"Oh, Sam," said Rosie, and her voice was so full of affection that Sam drew back, eyes wide and gaping like a fish out of water.

"You're not angry with me?" he cried, voice wobbling a little at the end.

"No, you foolish hobbit, not one bit. It was all very sweet, mind. even though I figure you should've learnt by now not to take all of master Pippin's words to heart. He's a good hobbit, but he gets a bit too excited at times."

"But I wasn't dashing, or – or romantic, or anything, like," Sam blurted out, head spinning from everything that had happened in the past few minutes. He felt as if he was in a dream.

But Rosie's warm brown eyes were so very here, and real, and twinkling just that way she got whenever she was about to say something that set Sam's heart beating like crazy, and Sam stopped thinking altogether.

"Sam, it was Sam the gardener I fell in love with. Not Sam the hero, not Sam anything else. I wouldn't have anyone else but you, Sam. No-one tends the garden the way you do, no-one gets the flowers blooming and the birds chirping like that, no one else is so soft and strong at the same time, so sweet and unassuming and loyal and caring. Only you."

"Oh," Sam said. "Oh. Oh. That means – does that mean – you don't mind – making a family with me?"

Rosie didn't answer that. Instead, Sam was swept into a kiss so sweet that he almost tasted it right on his tongue. A warm feeling blossomed, deep in his chest, something different from that tired relief he'd felt when his whole ordeal with Master Frodo had been over. Something more – well, less climactic, maybe, a whole lot less bone-jarring, but something sweeter, fuller, more right.

This was his Rosie, and he was home.

He was home at last.

(Later, when Rosie held his hand tight as they sat outdoors with cups of teas and biscuits, and told him he didn't need to get any more heroic since he was a hero already anyway, Sam blushed right to the roots of his hair.

'I'll always be your hero,' he'd managed to get out, before mortification caught up with him and sealed his lips again.

Rosie had almost teared up at that, and they kissed after that, slower, deeper, straight into the night, and Sam couldn't wish for anything more.)

* * *

**The End**

* * *

Now for the very long A/N. 

First of all, I cannot believe that I actually finished this - it'd started out as a small enough project (just nine chapters, how hard could that be?) but the effort and thought that went into it was definitely not small, nor simple. Now I have a newfound respect for all writers of multichapter stories.

But it was also very, very fun writing this. It was great fun imagining what sort of romances the fellowship would get themselves into (one of the chapters that were the most fun to write was Gandalf - the biggest headache, too, but I really liked how it turned out in the end. And the Boromir chapter will always have a special part in my heart, because I liked the voice of the narrator in that one too much.)

And also deciding what perspective to take, what tone to use - yes. All very big fun. And (as silly as it might sound) it also feels like a great milestone in my amateur fanfic-writing career.

**Great Thanks** to all those who have read this story, taken their time to favorite, follow, and even review. Whenever I was just too lazy, or feeling down, or had a writer's block - the thought that someone was reading this not-so-perfect collection was the fuel that kept me going, the thing that made me smile on bad days. So, thank you so, so much, from the bottom of my heart.

And also - I now came to the realization that while I had taken care to PM replies to the reviews all logged-in users left on this story, I hadn't acknowledged the guest reviewers quite as much as they deserved. I am very sorry (if you are watching!) - and thank you for your reviews, because they made me a very happy person. Specifically - earthdragon on the first chapter, and Nymiriel on the seventh. Again, thank you. Your reviews really gave me a huge boost in my everyday life.

This just seems to be turning into a huge thank-you fest, but I still have some more thanks to give! A huge special Thank-you goes out to **my very special Guest**, who has taken the time to painstakingly read and review every single one of my chapters. I was beyond flattered, truly. That someone cared enough about these oneshots to do that for me - it was an amazing thing, it still is. So you have my most heartfelt gratitude.

So that is the real end.

Hope to meet you again with some different work, hope you enjoyed this small series, and all - have a nice day!


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